


I Hate Sherlock Holmes

by SaraDobieBauer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Romance, Sexual Humor, Sexy Sherlock, Shameless Smut, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 10:30:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1979490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraDobieBauer/pseuds/SaraDobieBauer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is my most arrogant, infuriating Master's student, so why do I want to shag him senseless?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hate Sherlock Holmes

I hate him. I really do. Don’t I? If I hate him, why did I just bed him on my office floor? Why am I covered in, well, him? But I hate him. I’ve always hated him. Since day one, I’ve hated him. Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

Annoying prat. Know it all. Handsome bugger.

No! Hate him. Thoroughly hate, hate. Have hated him since the semester started. He walked into my organic chemistry class, and I should have known: all the other students went silent, got all uncomfortable. Should have known he would be nothing but trouble with his silky hair and cheekbones and … no! 

Hate. Him.

I did my usual first day spiel. These were Master’s students, after all, not children. They didn’t need a syllabus. They didn’t need me to hold their hands. They needed me to show them the way to or-chem enlightenment. And I would have if not for Holmes and his obnoxious mouth.

He corrected my pronunciation. Corrected it. In front of everyone, without raising one of those long-fingered hands of his. (I hear he plays violin.) The other students chortled as I turned red in the face and asked to see him after class.

He followed me to my office. Anyone else would have seemed harmless in a light blue shirt and jeans. But no, Holmes strutted. Like the cat who just ate your prized canary diamond. One hand in his pocket, he made himself at home in the leather chair across from my desk and steepled his fingers under his nose.

“Yes?” he purred. Purred!

“Don’t interrupt me in class. Ever. Again.”

“But you were wrong.”

“I was not.”

“You were … wrong.” He narrowed his bright blue eyes at me.

I crossed my arms and tried to look authoritative when in fact I felt like throttling him. I felt like squeezing that long, pale neck … very nice neck. Hate him! “If I’m so wrong, then find another teacher.”

“No,” he said. He stood up and left my office. 

The semester went on like this. I noticed other students kept their distance from him, even in lab. Although women never—never—spoke to him, they watched him. He was easy to watch.

Of course, the arsehole would be brilliant. Never missed a question. Never failed a lab. Made me hate him even more, because he knew it: Holmes knew he was brilliant. He flaunted it.

Halfway through term, teachers did evaluations to let Master’s students know how they were doing. Holmes showed up precisely on time. (He was always so damn punctual.) He had on a black t-shirt. He looked tired. Then, more shocking than his staggering IQ: he had a rather sizeable purple bruise on his neck. I could practically see the outline of a mouth. Jesus, were those teeth marks? 

I cleared my throat. “Mr. Holmes, you are cantankerous, rude, and a childish know-it-all.” I paused. “Your marks are excellent, and I can’t wait to have you out of my class. That is all.”

He shrugged. “You are an attractive middle-aged woman whose ex-husband is a professor at this very university, although you avoid each other at all costs. You dislike children, which is why you teach at the university level. You had coffee for breakfast and …” His brow furrowed. “Ice cream?”

“How the bloody fuck—”

“You would hate me less if you found me less attractive.” He smirked.

I stood up and circled his chair until I had the door to my office open wide. “You’ll kindly get the hell out of here, Holmes.”

He stood up. I’m tall; he was taller. “What? No quick angry bang on the desk, professor?”

I got right up into his pretty, pinched face. “I would rather bed an angry rhinoceros.”

He tilted his head to the side, and he winked. Horrible, haughty prat! I slammed the door once he’d gone and wondered how the hell he knew I’d had ice cream for breakfast. Strawberry, to be exact. Practically a nutritional item.

But then, oh, for shit’s sake, I did fuck him! On my office floor! Which is where I am right now, up on my elbows, staring down at his lovely, sweaty face. He’s dozing, breathing lightly. There’s barely any light left outside. The university has gone to bed. Yet, here I am, sticky with … sex … smelling like him—smoke and chemicals. Oh, my God! How did this happen?

He came into my office two hours ago to turn in his final, and no, there was no thought of snogging in my highly educated and sensible brain. No, because I hate Sherlock Holmes. Except he’d apparently dressed for the occasion in a black button-down, gray suit coat, dark jeans, and black dress shoes. And again, a bruise on his neck. 

“Why can’t you properly button a shirt?” I practically shouted.

“I’m … sorry?” He did that infuriating head tilt thing that served to show off the hickey—yes, it was a huge hickey—that marred his ivory flesh.

I gestured to his very obvious collarbone.

Then, he did something so uncharacteristic that I about tumbled out my chair. Holmes laughed. It was a chest-shaking, thigh-burning rumble. I’d never seen him smile, let alone laugh, and here he was, laughing in my office—at me. Hate him!

“And who the bloody hell has been destroying your neck?”

“Albert.”

“Albert?” My lips pressed together, tightly.

“He’s pre-med. Very fond of my neck.”

Who wouldn’t be? I thought. Then, I pinched myself and made a little hooting noise.

“Are you imitating an owl, professor?”

I wasn’t ready for a retort, because I was still processing Albert. 

Albert? 

It had never occurred to me that Holmes might be gay, and by God, why was I so disappointed? My throat was suddenly dry as I was overtaken by a barrage of images of Holmes … being gay.

“Professor? Are you quite well?”

I could hear the infuriating amusement in his deep, delicious voice, so I huffed. “You’ve done fine this semester, Holmes. I hope to never have you as a student again. Good day.”

He stood up and pulled down on his suit coat. He then did not—did not!—exit my office. He instead rounded my desk, turned my chair, and kneeled between my legs. 

“Mr. Holmes!” 

He looked like a hungry wolf, like he wanted to eat me. Then, I realized, by God, he wanted to eat me! He put his long fingers on the outsides of my thighs.

“Holmes …”

“Professor.” He licked his bottom lip.

“I can’t stand you. I think you’re the most frustrating man I’ve ever met. What on earth makes you think you can seduce me in my own office?”

He closed his eyes for a second and then said, “I don’t.” He took his hands off my thighs and stood up to head for the exit, which was when I decided, aw, fuck all. I caught up with him as he reached to open my office door. I batted his hand away and took hold of his shoulder. I spun him around and shoved him against the wall.

A devilish grin graced that decadent mouth, and I poked my finger into his chest. “I think you’re disgusting.”

“And you’re an unforgiving, overbearing wench of an educator.”

“Yes, wonderful.” I took hold of the back of his neck and stepped up on my tiptoes to get my tongue in his mouth. He tasted of coffee. He reached his hands down and cupped my ass. Yes, those long fingers were good for something other than lab work. He moved his mouth to my neck. 

“You realize your fellow classmates can’t stand you,” I said. I tugged on his hair.

“Yes.” He spoke against my skin. “Because I’m smarter than them.”

“Unggg …” Eloquent. 

He picked me up and carried me to my desk, which would never do.

“Beakers!” I squeaked.

With his hands still holding me up, he kneeled on the dark red carpet and dropped me to the floor with an “oomph.”

“Damn it, Holmes.”

He smirked and removed his suit coat. He crushed me beneath the weight of his long, lean body. I liked it. No, I loved it. Hate? Hate who?

“What about Albert?” I said.

He unbuttoned my blouse. “He’s an experiment.”

I raked my fingers through his hair—couldn’t seem to stop doing that. “Am I an experiment, too, then?”

He mouthed my nipple through my bra, which made me bray like a mule. “Life is an experiment.”

In my haze of hate-inspired lust, I sort of blacked out. I think I may have torn his nice shirt, but the prat deserved it for biting my hipbone too hard. Then, we were rutting against each other and fucking until I felt the skin of my elbows tear into the floor. I may have left another hickey. I understood Albert’s fascination; Holmes’ skin tasted sweeter there.

Then, I came and am possibly going to hell for the string of obscenities that filled my office like a cloud of cigar smoke.

And we’re back to me on the floor, wondering how I could be so attracted to someone I hate so much. Because Sherlock Holmes truly is the worst sort of man: the sort who knows how to get what he wants, in any circumstance. He will likely end up a serial killer, and I’ve just given him the chemical know-how to dispose of corpses.

He opens his eyes; wasn’t sleeping after all. “Stop it,” he says.

“Stop what?”

“Thinking.”

“I wasn’t—” Yes, you were. You were thinking, loudly enough for him to hear apparently. “I still hate you.”

“Good,” he mutters.

“Are you honestly going to go through life like this? Being brilliant? Making people hate you? Taking pleasure in making people hate you?”

He shrugs. His skin is the color of melted vanilla ice cream. “It’s never bothered me before.” He sits up. He has wonderful abdominal muscles. A wonderful ass. I wonder what he does to keep in shape. I think about asking but then think I don’t want to know anything else about this horrible person who just fucked me into the floor. 

Well, one more thing: “How many professors have you shagged?”

“Seven,” he says and stands up.

I pull my blouse over me like a blanket. “You have not.”

He looks over his shoulder at me—an infuriating gesture.

“My God, why?”

He steps into his jeans. “My hypothesis requires repeated experimentation.”

I dread asking, but I do, because I’m an idiot. “What is your hypothesis?”

He turns to face me as he buttons his shirt. “Sex has nothing to do with emotion.” He adjusts his collar as I gape up at him. I feel very, very naked. “I think seven proofs are enough, don’t you?”

“But, but …” I stammer. I never bloody stammer. “Sex has everything to do with emotion.”

He puts on his suit coat and goes down on one knee. “And yet you hate me but couldn’t wait to bugger me brainless.”

I sneer. “Which would be quite a feat, you heartless genius.”

He leans forward and kisses me once more. He’s really a very sweet kisser for being such an utter dick. Then he says, “Your ex-husband's a better shag.”

I’m hot from tits to toes. I snarl and reach to pull a chunk of hair from his pointed head, but he’s already gone. He leaves the office door open so any passing janitor might see me in all my naked fury. 

I really hate Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> Come play with me on [Tumblr](http://saradobiebauer.tumblr.com/)!


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